Fucking hell. Christ! Jesus... bollocks!
I am determined that today, I shall find my way out of this pickle. I am currently living under a bridge with a homeless couple. This is not a terrible arrangement, but it is far from perfect. They find the most idiotic things to argue about. Last night, they came to blows because he said her face was too wide. She launched at him over the brazier (not kidding - we do have one) and said something about “you’d have a wide face if you’d lived my life”. I thought this was lacking an essential logic, but I stayed out of it. They don't generally thank you for getting involved. They have the most violent and noisy sex. I stare into the water of the canal, trying to block out the groaning. I’ve asked them to stop by throwing my shoes at them, but I am a terrible shot, and I actually managed to hit myself one time! I disturb the water with my finger, hoping that I will disappear with my reflection. I’ll bet his cock must be dropping off from fuckrot.
I have a colossal pain in my head. It is like ants are in there. I keep coughing up these bits of plastic. I don't remember eating any plastic, but I suppose I must have. Why would I eat plastic? I must have been very drunk. This would also explain why my head is hurting. I wish I could remember.
I am going to try the ancient practice of screeving. Pavement artists are a noble, yet dying breed, and thanks to the apathy of my peers, it falls upon me to resurrect this form. I stole some chalk from W.H. Smiths, and set up camp outside Marks & Spencer. I figured that the demographic throughput of Marks would raise my chances of middle class guilt. I decided to illustrate my favourite poem, Porphyria’s Lover. The unfaithful woman, who has, upon my interpretation of the poem, been sharing her love with a hoard of undesirables, and ends up strangled by her own hair, a symbol of her dangerous beauty. Sadly, three years of alcohol abuse has reduced my attention span dramatically. I realised, after twenty minutes, that I had just been writing a load of swear words, and drawn a big spunky cock and a pair of tits. Although this had won me a number of appreciative children, they grew wary of me when I asked them for cigarettes, and soon sped outside my flailing range. At this point I became acutely self-conscious, and my natural defence was to start singing.
Singing may well be the way out of this predicament. Tiffany was discovered when she was singing in a shopping centre, so I hear, and now she’s got a well-established chain of jewellers. I determined to break into the music scene. I don’t really want a jewel shop - I’m not greedy, and it sounds like very hard work. After three minutes of singing Paper Roses, I realised I needed to clear my throat, and spent two minutes doubled up in a coughing demolition event. Recovering slightly, I regarded my small crowd of concerned onlookers, and considered my options. I could sing quietly to this assembled crowd, and make use of the bond we had developed, or I could try for as wide an audience as possible, by singing at the top of my voice. I opted for the latter. In retrospect, I may have focussed on volume at the expense of tonal purity - it wasn’t my most commandinig performance. The point, perhaps, is moot - after another minute of singing I collapsed into another coughing bout, and this time I actually brought up a bloody solid in my semen-soaked handkerchief. Memoranda to myself - get the hanky cleaned, and steal some Strepsils.
Seeing as I’ve now lost my voice, I have stolen a glockenspiel - but I really don’t know how to play it. I know all the notes are down there, but they don’t go in the order of a tune. Well, I tell a lie. Not all the notes are there, they’re all missing except for D sharp and G. This leaves me with only three options - D Sharp, G, or both together. Not the widest spectrum for self-expression, but if you consider the amount of times I can play the notes, the possible combnation of notes, and therefore tunes, rises exponentially. Playing four notes on the trot, I have a possibility of 34 - 81 tunes! This concept of cllimbing into the infinite intrigues me, and I shall spend the next two weeks sitting outside WH Smiths, playing every possible combination of notes there could ever be. It is the least I can do for them, since they unwittingly sponsored my pavement venture two hours ago.
Fuck and nuts and fucknuts. I had moved up to eight note combinations, and had reached (if I remember correctly) combination 1480 of 6561 possible combinations. I had considered my pursuit to be bringing me closer to the divine, but the fucking fat dog on the counter at WHSmiths said that I was giving her a headache. I nearly said that it was probably an ill-advised diet of butter and crisps coupled with a regimen of exercise limited to crisp lifting and rolling to face the television that was giving her a headache. In the end, however, I barked at her and coughed up some more red phlegm into my hands, which I presented to her by wiping it on her jacket. I disguised this attack (cleverly, I thought) by pretending to lose my balance and staggering towards her. My hand (which I had preloaded with the phlegm) went to her - ostensibly for support - and the gruesome cargo was delivered.
Net profits on the day? Fuck all, squared, in a box, without a bow. How much closer am I to finding a way out of my situation? I am no closer. Still, I’m not beaten yet - I have a number of tricks up my sleeve. I have yet to develop my bold new form of street theatre (taking audience participation to its logical, and messy, conclusion), and a light-hearted dance routine called " The Voguerant". It is a clever play on words. I don't expect you to get it. The annoying thing is that I've got a house somewhere. I've just forgotten where it is. You wouldn't believe the extent to which this fucks me off.
Had the dream where I am running up stairs again. Amazing things, dreams. I hope I have the sex one again. I like the sex dream.